Going Feet First Ch. 03

This gift brought about a heavy fatigue to ravage Tanza's face, but still she did not falter in her spell. As the power of their clan back home began to fade, the elder desperately pressed the last bits of her gifted spells into Celia's mind.

"I will... always... watch out for you... Celia... And Galen... will never stop... until you are... safe... Until then... be strong, my sister."

Celia's eyes shot open, heart pounding and lungs heavy as she laid eyes upon Galen hanging limp between two slavers, tracks being carved out in the sand as they carried him away.

...

The Private was in a fight to stay awake, his eyes sliding closed for a moment before they shot back open to find he was now being dragged across the grass with a group of horses just a few feet away. Some deal must have been worked out for the stallions, because the two men heaved and threw Galen into one of the saddles, tying his legs to the stirrups and retying his hands behind his back.

"Alright, everyone pack up," Sir Marshall Tin ordered. "Our lord wants us back home by nightfall, we need to get the camp together and move out."

Sudden agonizing pains swept through the Private's skull as a tingly feeling began to surge through his veins again. The elixir Pretayus had given him was wearing off, and everything it stopped was coming in tenfold, like somebody had struck him with a baseball bat over and over again.

"AHHHhhhh Damnmmmmnn!" he whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut as he tried to fight back the agony.

"Looks like the suspension drink is wearin' off," one slaver laughed.

"After the blows he took, I'm surprised he isn't out already."

"Fix that."

Galen lifted his head up, resisting his urges to cry out in pain in front of Celia. He had to stay strong. His eyes, dazed as they were, drifted over toward her to find her gaze already locked upon him. Mustering his strength to give her a smile, he mouthed in elvish, "I'm coming for you."

Her ears perked up, but not in the joy he anticipated. Horror widened her eyes as a club lined up with the back of Galen's head. Her scream of warning came too late as it swung up under the helmet, striking the knockout blow to his skull.

...................

You evil Rakna, Petra thought as she watched Pretayus approach Celia, speaking to the Elf with a cruel simper upon his face. Whatever he was saying, it had to be in elvish, because Celia was responding to every word with tears in her eyes.

Had Petra been accompanied by Teirie, Farok, or even just two Ra'zorlich warriors, she could easily bring an end to every man in that camp. Even Pretayus with his mithril, reinforcements, and chest full of bravado would be slain with ease. But unfortunately the Shadow Stalker did not have that luxury of backup; she had only Galen and his weapons, neither of which were of use at the moment.

All the assassin could do was circle around them using the trees for cover, ensuring what she carried did not give her away with unwanted clacking or rattling. Celia would have to wait until she caught up to Galen and set him free before he left the forest.

She could understand now why Necela had ordered Pretayus's death, why the goddess who was the pinnacle of peace and bringer of life wanted him to lose his so badly. His business was evil, his humor despicable, and his cruelty without end. Ra'zorlichs would never go so far as taking a man to a Drider for the purpose of execution. Half of the tribe didn't believe in such a terrible creature in the first place, but most understood the legends and wouldn't give even the worst of their foes such a fate.

A nervous quiver racked Petra's body as she thought of the legend of the Driders; a half spider, half Dark Elf monstrosity. It was said that the Dark Elves punish the worst of their criminals by turning them into said beasts and using them to their own ends. Protection is rumored to be the most prominent use, but it was also whispered that Driders have been deployed in their war against Redding.

It was amazing how much news and rumors the Ra'zorlichs heard during their deals with slave traders and from scouts poking about the woods.

According to legend, a Drider would trap its victims by petrifying them with its cry. Afterwards it would spool them up in a web, inject them with venom to paralyze their muscles. When the victim was incapable of even batting its eyelashes, the Drider would suck out its blood while it was still alive; fully aware, and fully feeling everything that what was happening. Should Galen make it to the Drider, he would die slowly and painfully, and he would not go to either the Serene or the Nether.

The goddess of the underground caverns running all over Raska has her own special afterlife for those who dwell in her domain, and for those who visit and die there as well. Petra did not know much more about the world beneath the surface, only that it was far more treacherous than the one above.

One of the mines her tribe had excavated broke through to the undertunnels once. An expedition of a twenty, battle hardened warriors were sent into them, but they soon returned with a third of their numbers missing and another fifth losing their sanity.

Taking from the reports of those who hadn't lost their minds, the danger began when men complained of voices in their head, telling them to turn around and leave. When they did not, warriors began to go mad, attacking each other and screaming for the rest to get out. The force retreated, and the then-king Kulak ordered the tunnel to be collapsed, decreeing that the Ra'zorlichs would never dig their mines so deep ever again.

Yet the fate of those warriors paled compared to what awaited Galen now. The thoughts of the Drider execution stirred torrents of anger and pain within the assassin's gut, her chest heaving on each breath until she could finally force the image from her mind. To not give herself away, she had to remain calm and maintain her pursuit of Galen and his captors.

...

It took a little more than a fifth of a zetran before Petra spotted Galen beginning to stir in the saddle of his mount. At first his hands twitched, then his shoulders shifted, then his head -still lying in the horse's mane- turned toward her with both eyes struggling to open. The assassin let out a relieved sigh as she saw him return to the waking world.

The slavers were laughing at him as he tried to pull his head off the back of the horse's neck, mocking him on his face full of greasy hair. When the soldier began to come around, still barely keeping himself from nodding off, one of the slavers said something to him. So few words, yet so effective in striking life back into the soldier.

Right away Galen tried to jump from the saddle, only to nearly topple over as his feet were lashed to the stirrups. Desperately he fought the ropes holding him in place until one of the slavers rode up beside him and put a blade to his neck.

Words were exchanged, the horse Galen rode on calmed down. Though seconds later came the Private's roar, "YOU... YOU EVIL FUCKS! YOU'RE ALL FUCKING DEAD!"

There was an eruption of laughter.

Hold on, Galen. I will be there soon, Petra thought.

Then came a deep battle cry unleashed from somewhere deep in the forest. The assassin hit the ground as the slavers turned their attention to the direction of the vicious sound as well. A group of warriors in the dark cloaks and yellowish armor dashed through the trees, coming toward both the river and slavers in full sprint.

This group was a fair distance off, but they were at a swift pace. Petra dared to raise her head enough to take a look, watching as they tore through the bushes with little regard for stealth or subtlety. A second later she could see why.

More than a dozen, mounted cavalry men tore through the brush after them, swords or lances at the ready. One of the runner's feet caught on something, the cloaked figure tripping and slamming onto the ground. Before he could get up and continue to flee, a horseman came down upon the person, spearing his head with his lance.

"Those are Reddin's colors," one of the slavers announced. "See them yellow and red bars on their breastplates? Th' horsemen are from Reddin'."

"Oi, big man, what's yer name?"

"Harin," the giant Knight leading Galen's horse answered.

"Harin, think ya could convince our friends on th' ponies to give one up? Way you walk, it'll take a day to make it to the Drider."

"Hrmmph, yeah. Maybe if we kill teh ones they is afta, somethin' could be worked out," the giant answered.

"Alright then, let's give the riders a hand."

The slavers dismounted, drawing their weapons as the thunder of hooves drew nearer. Not wanting to miss the opportunity, Petra removed all the gear she had been carrying, setting it all aside save for Galen's rifle. On her belly, she silently crawled through the thicket toward the clearing along the river. The approaching the rattle of metal armor and rumble of hooves was within a hundred paces of them now.

"Stop right there!" one slaver roared.

There came the sound of blades leaving sheathes; the mystery warriors charged right into the line made by Galen's three escorts. Blades clashed, but both parties remained unscathed as the cloaked fighters broke through the feeble line and dashed toward the river bank. There the warriors spun on their heels and came together to form an arrowhead formation. Right then Petra realized these were no ordinary fighters.

They had moved with extreme dexterity, their agility unhindered even with the burden of their great cloaks. Their stature was shorter than that of the slavers, the tallest of them being roughly a hand-width shorter than Galen.

Lastly were their tactics. Backing themselves against the river was no mistake as having that water-body roaring at their backs kept the horsemen from charging them, lest their steeds get washed away by the current.

As Petra began to admire the cloaked warriors, the fifteen cavalrymen rode out from the brush line; forming a semicircle around the cloaked warriors before dismounting. Galen watched silently from his own steed as the Knights readied their weapons but did not press their attack. Instead they maintained a noose around their prey with shields up and swords pointed forward.

The Captain of the riders, a man wearing a full plate suit with gold trim, dismounted his armored horse. The mail underneath his shell of steel rattled as he squared off with the leader of the cloaked warriors, sidestepping toward the three men surrounding Galen.

"You with us?" the commanding Knight asked, eyes fixed on his opposing leader with great intensity.

"Yeah, we're with you," the slaver answered.

"Who's the sod on the horse?" the Captain asked, motioning to Galen.

"A demon, a dangerous one at that. We're taking him away to ensure he gets a proper execution. Who are these blots?"

"Damned Sun-Kissed," the Captain responded, glaring at the cloaked figures his men surrounded. "Spyin' on some Redding troops that were supposed to be upriver before stealin' some sensitive documents from an outpost. We're here to put 'em down."

"You shall try, but today you die, human," a voice interrupted.

A spark of interest drew Galen's attention toward the person who had snapped at the cavalry Captain. It came from the head of the cloaked warriors, and it sounded like a woman was hiding under that dark hood and black shemagh.

Before Galen could dwell further on the subject, a faint groan barely caught his ear. He snapped his head to the bushes behind him, heart picking up in his chest as he spotted the dark outline of a familiar assassin. He managed a momentary smile, but then quickly turned his head back to the Knights ahead of him.

The steel-wrapped soldiers began to move in on the "Sun-Kissed." They did not outright rush them; the Knights merely began to tighten the noose while the slavers joined their ranks. If Galen ever had an opportunity, it was now. He looked toward the waiting assassin, giving her a definitive nod.

The first blades clashed together, another feminine voice giving a shrill battle cry, and then the fight started. Steel weapons stabbed and parried, blades slapped against breast plates, angered warriors gave their vicious cries as they engaged the other. Despite being outnumbered, the cloaked warriors continually changed positions while holding formation, protecting and covering each other from the attacks of the steel-clad horsemen.

Galen's horse whinnied as Petra hopped onto the back, her claws tearing through the Private's wrist binds before she tackled the ropes that lashed his ankles to the stirrups.

At that moment, one of the slavers received a boot to the chest, knocking him flat on his backside. Swearing, he scrambled to pick himself up off the ground, taking moment to glance in Galen's direction. The young man's eyes went wide as he froze at the sight of the demon's hands going free, mouth forming a smile as he reached for his holster.

For Celia, Galen thought as he drew his pistol, flicking off the safety, taking aim.

The initial gunshot silenced the forest. Birds scattered from trees, the horses whinnied in fear, the Knights and the Sun-Kissed paused mid-combat to watch as the slaver hit the ground with a gaping hole in the center of his head. A thin trail of smoke poured out from Galen's pistol as he breathed unsteadily with teary eyes. The ropes binding him to the horse's saddle came undone, and the Private did not hesitate to hop off from the mount.

Being strapped to the horse for so long left a stiff ache in his loins and thighs. Galen struggled to keep himself upright as he hit the ground, reaching out with one hand to grasp the horse's saddle and steady himself while still keeping his pistol aimed at the group in front of him.

From how their bodies shifted away from the aim of the weapon, he knew they were aware of the threat his Colt .45 posed. Every eye was upon him, every blade sat idle but ready as the warriors watched Galen draw Harin into the sights of his pistol.

"Wha' sorcery is dis?" the Knight muttered, body petrified with fear.

A tear running his cheek, Galen began to smile, chuckle even. He offered no answer as he pulled the trigger, the bullet tearing through the mail on Harin's knee and knocking the giant to the ground. The pistol cracked off again, and again. One by one, the rounds destroyed the Knight's limbs: both kneecaps, elbows, shoulders, a bullet penetrated each joint until the pistol's slide finally locked back to signal an empty magazine. However, the pistol continued to click as Galen tried to pull the trigger again and again.

Both the Knights of Redding and the mysterious Sun-Kissed stood still as Galen finally realized his weapon was dry. Another tear running his cheek, he pushed down on the slide lock, snapping it forward as he dropped the spent magazine and returned the weapon to its holster.

Still holding the attention of the two clashing forces, the soldier held out his hand toward Petra, who stood patiently at his side.

"My rifle, please."

The M-14 gave a cheerful squeal as it came into Galen's hands again, the moss soothing his palms as he pulled the bolt to check the chamber. Grinning, he looked over to the last slaver, who had backed off from the Sun-Kissed he had been fighting.

A dead-serious expression on his face, the Private said, "You have to the count of three to run."

The man's eyes went wide as he took a step in retreat, mouth moving as though to question what Galen meant. When he shouldered his rifle and counted "one," the slaver got the message. In a flash of mail and leather, he turned on his heel and ran for his horse.

"Two," the Private counted after a few seconds pause, drawing a beat on the slaver as he hopped into the saddle.

"Three."

The trigger was squeezed, the internal hammer of the rifle moving forth to strike the firing pin. The primer punched, a spark cast onto the powder inside the bullet, igniting a rapid burn that sent a rush of superheated gasses forward behind a 7.62mm round to propel it down the barrel. A fraction of a second before the round left the muzzle; gasses entered the gas trap of the weapon, filling a chamber to push the operating which in turn thrust the bolt backward. The shell casing was pulled and ejected from the chamber, twirling high into the air as the rolling bolt reached the end of the receiver and bounced forward again, catching and chambering the next round to fire.

Traveling at twenty-eight hundred feet-per-second, a full-metal jacket round went forth along its trajectory, finding its home in less than a hundredth of a second.

Metal and bone burst from the slaver's shoulder as the round tore through, his voice going high as he screamed in pain. A second bullet tore through his back, bits of ribs and lung exploding from his chest before the third trigger pull was made from Galen's M-14.

The last round met the base of the slaver's skull, taking the head along with it as it passed through. The horse he rode gave a terrified whinny as it broke into a gallop. The decapitated corpse fell from the saddle with its feet still caught in the stirrups, a hand still grasping the reins and refusing to let go. As the horse took off into the forest, the body hung off its side and left a bloody trail behind it.

Hand trembling on the front of his weapon, Galen turned to the warriors who had been watching him in both shock and awe. He focussed intently on the leader of the Sun-Kissed, the woman who had sworn that the Knights would die this day. The Private could not see her eyes hidden under her hood, nor her face covered up by her black mask, but his situation alone gave him a sense of trust for his timely distraction.

Unlike his cloaked adversaries, the Captain of the cavalry did not lower his head; he locked eyes with Galen while struggling to suppress the fear attempting to breach his gruff exterior. His grip remained firm on his blade, his nerves settling from their shaken state.

"Galen," Petra whispered with her mouth close to his ear. "These men have horses we could use to catch up to Celia, and I have no doubt they are friends of Pretayus."

"Pretayus?" the Captain challenged. "You know Pretayus the Tamer?"

Galen's posture shifted, becoming a bit more relaxed as he said, "Yes, I do. He's a friend of mine that I was just going to meet when these men got in the way." He smiled as he motioned to the corpse before him and the wounded Harin.

The Captain grinned, "If you help us with these knife-ears, I can help you meet him, Demon. We used to catch merchandise together, he is a friend. Just point that magic of yours at the knife-ears, and we can all get along."

The smile on Galen's face turned to a sneer, his rifle barrel rising to be flush with the Captain's head. "No, we can't. The 'merchandise' Pretayus has is my girl, my Celia, and he's going to..." His breathing became heavy as he swallowed the lump growing in his throat, his rifle whimpering as his hands clamped down onto the body. "I'll kill him. Him, his men, and everything he's ever built."

The Private glanced over to the Sun-Kissed, making eye contact with several of them as he said, "The enemy of my enemy is my friend." He turned back to the steadfast Captain. "And the friend of my enemy is my enemy."

The meaning of the phrase took a moment to register in the Captain's mind, the pieces just clicking together as Galen squeezed the trigger. Faster than one thought possible, the armored Knight dove forward, tackling the Private to the ground. A shot fired off from his rifle as his back hit the dirt; Petra barely managing to dodge out of the way. The Neko's heart skipped as she felt the bullet graze her shoulder, taking hairs off her fur right beside her main artery.